Burn Inside of Me: The Picture of Severus Snape
by Severuline Darklotus
Summary: An introspective POV.


  


**DISCLAIMER**: Harry Potter, Severus Snape and all things in the Harry Potter omniverse are the exclusive intellectual property of J.K Rowling and Scholastic Press. The following is an original short story based on the Severus Snape character featured in the Harry Potter series. With that said and done, we now return you to your abnormal programming:

  


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"Burn Inside of Me: The Picture of Severus Snape" 

by Severuline Darklotus

severuline_darklotus@yahoo.com

  


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Inferences in this piece that Snape is not of human persuasion are based somewhat on the concept of the fallen angel, as per films such as The Prophecy I, II and III, Wings of Desire and Far Away, So Close.

  


This piece is something of an introspective exposé, a monologue, a dive straight into the center of the character (not in an emotional, touchy-feely sort of way, however, as that is not Severus' nature by any means), the both beloved and loathed Potions Master....

  


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It's not really the way they say things are. That is to say, _I_ am not really the way they say I am. Not in my entirety. The way they'd have you believe it, I must say, is a very _narrow_ portrayal of who and what I am; scantly does it do the depth of my true being any justice. For I am multifaceted, much more than unidimensional. I am not total darkness. I am comfortable with the darkness -- she is a very powerful teacher, a companion, guardian, even. I simply go to the necessary lengths to protect the subtlties of my innermost being. Most people are not worth letting in; be that as it may. It is quite a natural response when your every sense is so finely tuned -- taut to the point of pain at times -- like the strings of a dulcimer, newly fashioned by careful, masterful hands. Some nights, I scarcely slumber; should so much as the beating of a raven's wing upon dewy midnight air dare to intrude these castle walls, it washes over my being as if thousands of savage hands were beating relentlessly upon my eardrums, right there, right in the sweet darkness of my private chambers. And worse yet, right there inside my very private consciousness. And it's not as if I desperately implored the powers of the natural world -- the omniverse -- offering sacrifice, blubbering and moaning pathetically about, slicing my wrists and fingers to draw blood like some hapless teenager engaging the occult for nothing more than shock value, to bestow me with vision so keen I can see right into the deepest inner workings of anyone who crosses my path. It can be quite distracting at times. Lights, images, impressions dance, whirling out of control behind my closed eyelids as I lie in my chambers at night, waiting for the delicious depression of the central nervous system that only valerian root decoction can safely bring. I swear sometimes I can see straight into the dreams of everyone in this place when I saunter, alone, in the cold corridors under the cover of night; hear their every heartbeat, every thought and feel the very painful ponderousness of their collective presence within these walls. slowly, silken It can drive one to the very brink of insanity.

  


This world, this reality humans collectively agree to call the 'real world' is savage and dark. I have adapted my ways of being to ease my painful existence in this almost unnatural, unbalanced place of darkness and unwavering immorality. I have tried my very best to blend in -- not to be conspicuous, to hover, imperceptibly -- in the shadows -- where it is safe. I have the light within of me. You don't belive this assertion. I can _smell_ it on you. But no matter. darkly, with narrowed eyes Far be it for me to engage in petty conceit over something that is readily available to any and all a witch or wizard who would be daring enough to reach out and embrace it. Believe me -- it is far easier to fall by the dark side than it is to lift one's hand to the light. I have teetered on this very delicate and vertiginous precipice myself -- numerous times. It is no easy task, no feast in the Great Hall to work with and for the light. It is a hard, lonely journey; few kindred are about on this wretched earth, for they were well enough to remain in their proper place, curiousity about this place tucked neatly and tightly into the darker, cob-webbed corners of their minds. But there is power in it, indeed. And the rewards, well... curtly I'm certainly not here to sell you poltergeist insurance.

  


I'm not above indulging in a bit of revealing introspection, if only to humor you. Your ears are perked, your interest piqued. Don't even try to hide it from me. I am not _blind_, mind you. a wry smile struggles with the corners of his mouth, followed by an uncomfortably long silence My dark side is very precious to me for much more than the protection she provides. She is the face I present to the world. She is my mentor, always with me, always open and always keen to impart new revelations about the strange and alien world around me when the light would shine into the top of my head, reflected inside my mind and out through my eyes to illuminate all I survey for me and me alone. She is a place of inner solitude, solace, comfort, even, at times, peace. She is place of perception. scathingly But I far from expect _you_ to understand. _You_ who shun the darkness as if it were some foul, wreteched beast from the bowels of the omniverse, threatening to strip your very soul of everything that makes you...human.

  


Black. It is the very protection I wrap around myself. I've even heard my manner of dress described as 'unrelenting'. While I find that so _very touching_ indeed, none seem to bother giving notice to the very deliberately understated band of white peeking up every-so-shyly through the turtle neck of my frock as well as those which adorn my wrists, concealed under my robes. With such adornment, I remind myself of where I came from. The burning, all-pervading light. intensely, almost fierce, eyes glittering It must be protected at all costs in such a dark and hopelessly wayward world, lest I draw in the psychic vampires -- and this earth has more than its healthful share -- like moths to a flame. pauses, for effect, then darkly: But we all _know_ what happens when moths allow themselves too foolishly close to the flame. another deliciously wry smile toys with the corners of his mouth

  


Take this wreteched Potter, for an example. He hasn't the faintest clue how to hold his light in. He'd be better off trying to pass one of my final exams.evil grin He parades ever so carelessly about, with it spilling out of every pore in his dastardly, little body. Why do you think such detestable sorts like that Gilderoy Lockhart (not a _fairy_ nice guy, if you ask me -- Expelliarmus was _mild_ in comparison to what he _really_ deserved) and Rita Skeeter are instantly drawn to him..._like moths to a flame_? They attatch themselves to him like the pestilent parasites they are and drain from him every bit of light they possibly can get. Cowardly as they are, not nearly strong enough to turn their own faces to the light, they condemn themselves to parasitic sycophancy. whispers, hoarsely He doesn't even seem to posess the slightest glimmer of cognition that it _is_ his very light that draws them and that it is his _responsibility_ to take protective action on his own behalf; after all, he _is_ a wizard. Or so he would like to believe. a lock of raven hair dares to fall carelessly across a dark, penetrating eye...with a staccato flick of the neck, he removes it Truly, it is a _most_ pathetic thing to watch. Be that as it may. It is his fate and he alone must live and die with it. sardonically One must singe one's own skin to learn properly the power of the flame.

  


But the light, you ask. Where does _that_ fit in to the picture? The picture of Severus Snape, the swooping, overgrown bat of Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The unrelentingly pernicious Potions Master with a penchant for delving out detentions faster than you can say 'bat bile'.glowers for a moment, pensively, as if gathering his thoughts The light is a very personal experience, emmanating from a most impersonal source. narrows his eyes into scathing slits of intense, black fire What's that? You didn't come here for a philosophical discussion? viciously silken Very well, then, be _on your way _if your interest in what I have to say has waned to roughly that of the capacity for a mosquito to contemplate the finer points of brewing veritaserum. scowls, deeply, almost *gasp* hurt?, then, after a painful silence, continues The light does not discriminate and he is most forgiving, that is unless you truly _have_ done the unforgivable....trailing mysteriously off The light is keen to accept all who would embrace him with the intention of upholding what is just and true, however, once one has pledged allegience to the dark side _exclusively_, there is very little, if any hope of returning to the better graces of the light. 

  


What about your allignment with Voldemort, you're wondering; I can hear your every thought, you know. grins a deliciously devious grin, scratches lightly at his left forearm Truthfully, it was not something I undertook with a clear conviction that it was the right thing for me to do. I was a much younger soul then and despite the success I experienced attending Hogwart's, with a glint of haughtiness earning top marks in all subject areas, being _fiercely_ courted by Dumbledore and his cronies well into my seventh year to join his staff in the capacity of Potions Instructor (Master was a title that had to be earned with experience and loyal duty served), there were...certain things I desired which could not be wrought by academic excellence alone. Even the external validation of my aptitude as a wizard that being ordained as Order of Merlin, First Class upon graduation bestowed, I felt something was missing. With utmost certainty, my academic prowess has proven most beneficial. Being magickally inclined and having such validation of this was fine enough.... sounding almost sullen However, I was...unfulfilled, isolated. I was curious. Curious about...becoming a more social creature, about stepping out of the lone wolf that I am; curious that perhaps if I had a sense of comradeship with the others that it might well assuage this soul-wrenching pain and sense of isolation that seems imperitive with existing in this world, on this earth. I wanted to learn, being intellectually hungry as I was. I wanted knowledge. almost whispering I wanted...power. He almost convinced me that he alone could bestow this upon me, but one day..._one day_ I awakened, my consciousness ablaze with the painful clarity of who and what he was...And the further realization, almost as painful, that I already _had_ that power. Right here, burning inside of me, like a flame. It was my very birthright, coursing through my veins, coming from a long line of pureblood witches and wizards. Nobody and nothing can take that away from me. _Nobody_! Not even the Dark Lord himself. But I was much more foolish then. I was...fighting my better nature, that being to seek out solitude. Solitude, the one place I've always felt entirely comfortable, impervious to what lies in ruin all around me -- smoldering, creating the festering miasmas that is this earth. Solitude, my bride.

  


Once I realized the secrecy, the vigilant secrecy with which Voldemort so carefully guarded our identities from one another, I realized there was no true chance for fellowship with these...soulless beings that he so enchantingly ensnared to do his sordid bidding. I saw the ruddy lot of them for what they were -- a blasted, bloody cult! Spineless, will-forsaken drones. And it's not as if Voldemort had _any true_ power. True power comes from within. Voldemort was an empty vessel, even at the height of his power, empty. Voldemort's mirage of power was assumed and it was clear to me that it all had come from the outside, complete illusion. It was pure manipulation. Smoke and mirrors. Lowly mind games. darkly Quite what I expected from a mudblood, in retrospect. Why else would he childishly risk bestowing his ill-begotten presence upon this castle in order to retrieve the Sorcerer's Stone, walking right into the very place where the two most malignant persons to him -- Dumbledore and _Potter_, of course -- were right there, right there with the very power to drive him back out, back into the deep forests of Albania, to slump back under a rock where he, essentially, better belonged? through clenched teeth, pounding his fist on the desk in frustration I could not bear to be under such control from _anyone_, let alone someone so loathesome as the likes of the Dark Lord, the bastard, with all the psychic garbage that he fed the lot of them. And how they ate it up unquestioningly, like gourmet catering. Most _pathetic_, indeed. spits on the floor, angrily I had held back, for my own sake, what the others readily sacrificed -- the one thing that gave me the lion's share of my courage to resist -- my conscience. I resisted because _I_ was stronger. Stronger than the others who had long since forsaken their free will to Voldemort in exchange for who knows what petty human desires. Fleeting they are. Fleeting everything in this material world. _Permanently temporary_. To sell away your free will, your very soul for material affluence and comfort -- absolutely unthinkable. sardonically And quite _typical_, I'm afraid -- a human frailty but _select few_ are strong enough to resist. My strength, my gift -- curse -- of insight gave me the resolution to walk away and accept Dumbledore's offer, which is why I am here now. At that, I'm wasting my time blathering on like a fool to you -- YOU of all preposterous people! Out! Get OUT!! NOW!!! NOW!!!


End file.
